The Orphan And The Ghost
by Exitiabilis
Summary: Erik has a chance encounter with an innocent child and an unlikely friendship forms. Through a series of 'bedtime stories' Erik relates his past to her. On the subjects of life, happiness and love, she becomes the teacher and Erik the pupil.
1. A Brief Encounter

**Disclaimer: I am in no way affiliated with Gaston Leroux, ALW or The Really Useful Group. Please do not sue me. **

**Author's Notes: This started out as a oneshot, but I am now going to develop it into a short story. Please note that Clarisse is extremely young, therefore the idea of Erik starting a romantic relationship with her is sickening. I did not intend this as a love story. **

**I am terrified that Erik might be appallingly out of character in this story. If he is, by all means, let me know. **

* * *

The Orphan And The Ghost

Chapter One: A Brief Encounter

Music sounded from the depths of the abandoned opera house. It penetrated every wall, filling the great hollow structure with its haunting melody, dancing about the dusty stage as if mocking it with its former glory. The magnificent Opera Populaire was deserted now, filth littering the marble floor, the paint peeling from the walls. All that remained was an echo of a distant time, when each and every bed in the dormitories was filled, when grand parties were held in the ballroom, when everything was ablaze with vigour and energy.

_And when a ghost haunted the shadows._

* * *

In the caverns of the opera house, a demon sat at an enormous organ. His fingers were soaked with his own blood, dyeing the ivory keys crimson as his hands flew across the instrument with expert precision. The pain must have been almost unbearable but he hardly felt it. He had ceased to feel pain years ago.

The demon had told the world that he had no name. Some knew him as a monster; one had known him as an angel. But most knew him as a ghost. So henceforth we shall also know him as the Ghost.

The Ghost's music thundered, growing louder and louder, like the creation of the devil himself. The Ghost was bent down, pounding out the notes with inhuman force. Sweat trickled down his forehead and his neck, soaking the material of the fine linen shirt he wore. The song rose to a crescendo…then abruptly ceased.

The Ghost was panting, blood dripping off his raw fingertips, unable to continue. With some effort, he heaved himself off the stool and staggered to the edge of a glassy lake. He surveyed it for some time, before dipping his hands into the cool water. A mist had spread over the surface, like a cloud of lace on satin.

He straightened up, looking thoughtfully at a sleek black gondola tied up at the edge of the lake.

It would be night soon… 

The moon beckoned to him as it beckoned to all creatures of the night. He spent many nights gazing at the silvery orb in the sky, from a spot on the roof. The fire had somehow managed to burn straight through the roof before being extinguished; it had become a kind of trapdoor for him, with a piece of rotting wood as its cover.

The gondola glided noiselessly across the rippling water, carrying a single passenger, clad all in black. The light of hundreds of candles illuminated a white leather mask, emotionless and empty: the face the Ghost had created for himself.

* * *

The moon was already high in the sky when the Ghost reached the roof, half hidden behind a grey cloud. Her beams of ethereal light shone down, not quite managing to illuminate a starless sky. The Ghost watched from the darkness, hidden away in the safety of the shadows. Yet his golden eyes were visible as two shining points. Wraithlike. Unearthly.

It had become somewhat of a ritual for the Ghost to make his journey here every evening, just to watch the sun go down and the moon rise up from her prison. The moon seemed full of his music. And his memories.

Had it really been so long since he had watched them kiss, just in front of where he was standing now? It couldn't have been more than a few months could it? It seemed like a day ago to him. But hadn't he read about their engagement in the Epoque, followed later by news of their marriage and her pregnancy. Could it really have happened so quickly?

_Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime…_

The Ghost sighed and turned away. Strains of their duet reached out from the past and tugged at his heart, refusing to let go. How happy she had looked then, when the boy had picked her up and spun her round and round. How sweetly she had smiled when he bent his head to kiss her. How…

"No!" A single, tortured syllable escaped his lips. He shouted it into the night sky, repeating it until it had died away to no more than a whisper. It was his only means of defence. He had lived too long as a ghost to become human now.

The Ghost was about to leave, when he heard it. It was the tiniest sound, but his sensitive ears still caught it. A small scuffle, as if someone was trying to clamber down from the roof.

_He was not alone._

The Ghost slowly turned, every muscle in his body tense. It had been so long since he had heard a human sound. He had never thought to hear one again. He wondered who this unknown intruder was. The Ghost may not have been active, but his reputation had spread far after the downfall of the opera house. No one dared enter the wreck of the building now. He smiled to himself. Perhaps this could be interesting. A chance for him to relive old memories.

"Monsieur? Are you alright?" He jumped at a voice behind him and spun round. From what he could see, a figure was standing at the edge of the roof, where the Ghost would be perfectly invisible. The figure was small and slim, a little too slim, and probably female. The voice that came from it was a child's. A foolish little girl had wandered into his domain. The Ghost didn't know whether to be angry or amused.

"Monsieur, are you alright?" The girl repeated her question, sounding concerned. "Are you stuck?" The Ghost nearly gave away his position by laughing. Him? Stuck?

"No, _I'm_ quite alright," he eventually replied, using his skills as a ventriloquist so that his voice seemed to be everywhere at once, "_I'm_ quite alright, but what are you doing here?" The girl hesitated.

"I'm drawing," she said guiltily, "Sketching Paris. I climbed up here because the view is good." She waved a sketchpad vaguely in the air, unsure of where her companion was. "Where are you, anyway?" Pause. For a moment, the girl thought he had gone away. Then, she heard a voice, coming from a distinct direction now.

"Here. But don't come close. It's not safe."

"So you _are_ stuck. Do you want me to get help?" It took a while for the Ghost to realise that she was offering to help him. He was no longer used to human contact, and the fact that this girl was willing to help him was positively unnerving.

_She doesn't know what you are._

"No, I'm not stuck. I'm fine. But you should stay where you are." Although he couldn't make out her expression, the Ghost was sure that she was giving him an odd look.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"I am."

"Alright then." There was an awkward silence between them. The Ghost was certain she would run away screaming if she found him out. Why he disliked the prospect was unclear to him. He had had plenty of experience with screaming people. But he didn't want to hear her scream. It would remind him that he was subhuman. Below them.

"So…what's your name?" The girl scuffed her toe on the ground, peering curiously into the darkness. The Ghost backed further away from her gaze, cautiously moving behind a large wooden beam searching his memory at the same time for the name given to him at birth, a name he had tried to deny the existence of.

"My name…is Erik," he said after a lengthy pause. _Erik._

"That's a nice name. I'm Clarisse. Or Risse, if you like." They stood for a moment, neither of them saying a word. Erik found a strange sort of pleasure in knowing that someone was so close to him who would hear whatever was on his mind should he care to say it. Clarisse broke the silence with an uncomfortable cough. "I really ought to be going now. The folks back at the Home will be missing me. I mean…" She blushed deeply. "I stay in the orphanage, you see." Erik felt a twinge of pity. Although the orphanage in Paris was not a place where people were cruel to the children, it was undoubtedly a harsh place to grow up.

"I wouldn't want to keep you, Mademoiselle. It was very interesting to meet you here."

"Merci beaucoup, Monsieur Erik."

"De rien, Mademoiselle."

"Goodbye, then."

"Au revoir."

In stiff formality they parted. Erik watched Clarisse nimbly scramble down from the roof, using the pieces of broken brick and wood as footholds and smiled to himself. He had never had such childlike innocence in his life before.

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	2. Bedtime Stories

**Disclaimer: I am in no way affiliated with Gaston Leroux, ALW or The Really Useful Group. Please do not sue me. **

**Author's Notes: I don't really like this chapter, it's far too short and choppy but I'm out of ideas. The Erik is 2004 Gerik with a better voice and worse deformity, by the way. **

Chapter Two: Bedtime Stories

Erik saw her again after his first encounter. It became a sort of routine. She would sneak out of the Home when no one was looking and scramble up to the opera house roof with her sketchpad. Erik would always be there, waiting in the shadows. There he would stand in silence, watching her pencil moving rapidly across the paper, outlines of buildings and people taking shape. They didn't talk very much, except sometimes to exchange a few civilities. Silence was better.

Much later, Erik would still be able to see her, her dark red hair sticking up, elbows and knees tucked in, her dark brown eyes darting across her drawing. Clarisse was not a beauty, nor would she ever grow into one. She had told Erik that she was thirteen but she looked smaller than ten, her bones sticking out in a decidedly ungainly manner. They didn't starve her at the orphanage; she had told him with a smile, she had just grown that way.

Gradually, their conversations grew less brief. Clarisse showed him her drawings, drawings of little things like a pretty lady she had seen on the way home or a flower she had picked. Erik felt it was like looking at her life in pictures.

* * *

It was only late afternoon when Clarisse came up onto the roof as usual, looking exceptionally excited.

"Erik? Are you there?"

"Indeed I am, Clarisse." She beamed at the darkness where she was sure he was concealed.

"I've had an idea." She waved her ever present sketchpad and pencil. "I'm going to draw the sunset. That's why I'm here early." Erik observed her flushed cheeks and bright eyes smilingly. They did add an odd sort of charm to her features, he supposed.

"You're just on time," he remarked, "Only a few minutes to wait."

"I need your help." Clarisse stopped here, scratching her head nervously. "You _will_ help, won't you?"

"If it is in my power."

"Thank you."

"How do you draw a sunset in black and white? I haven't got any colours. Can you teach me?" When Erik next spoke Clarisse thought he sounded a little sad.

"I haven't taught anyone for years." His tone was calm but there was pain in his voice.

"But…could you teach me now? Not that I'm forcing you, but…" Erik had to smile at her naivety.

"Forgive me, Clarisse, but…"

"It's alright." Erik flinched at the disappointment in her voice. Without speaking, she sat and drew for the next half an hour, when the sun was halfway below the horizon and sinking fast, sending a fanfare of brilliant colour into the golden sky. Clarisse finally laid down her pencil and surveyed her work with a critical eye. Then lifting it, she held it into the air. "D'you think I managed it?" Erik looked. He sighed.

"It's wonderful."

"You don't sound very happy. What's the matter?" Clarisse enquired innocently, tilting her head to one side.

"Your work is truly beautiful, Clarisse. You never needed my help."

"_Really?_" Clarisse flushed bright pink with pleasure.

"Really." Erik forced the melancholy tone out of his voice.

* * *

He paused, hearing her yawn. "Sleepy?"

"Mmhmm…" Clarisse stretched out her legs, leaning against a chipped stone statue of Apollo.

"Would you like to hear a story?" The words were out of his mouth before he knew what he was doing. He knew several that would certainly entertain her…but they weren't what Erik wanted to tell her.

"Yes!" In a moment, Clarisse was bolt upright, grinning in anticipation. "I haven't heard a story for such a long time!" When Erik next spoke, his voice was quiet and heavy, so quiet that Clarisse could barely hear it.

"Once, there was a monster who fell in love with a beautiful princess. He adored her more than anything in the world. But the princess was not meant for him." The mournful whistling of the wind accompanied his voice. The sky was black again, with no stars in sight. And this time, the cloud completely overshadowed the moon.

"The monster stole the princess away to his lair one night in desperation, vowing to himself that one day she would be his. But she loved another. For a handsome prince had heard of the princess' situation and came to rescue her."

Clarisse listening to the story, her little face grave. She sensed seriousness behind the story, but she didn't understand. Stories were stories, wonderful and romantic, so different from truth. This was no bedtime story.

* * *

"And the monster who would have kept the princess with him forever let her go with her prince to be married because she loved her prince and he loved her." A brief moment of silence followed the story's conclusion.

"I'd give the monster some advice," Clarisse said thoughtfully, her eyes very big and very earnest.

"What would that be?" Erik felt tired and strangely drained. He leaned against a wall that had partly collapsed, shoulders sagging. He was not used to talking for so long without an interruption.

"I'd tell him that we all have the key to happiness inside us and that none of us are monsters, really. He must have been quite nice if he let the princess go. He just needs to find his happiness. It's always there." Erik reflected on her words, realising he didn't understand her at all.

"Shouldn't you be getting back?" he remarked suddenly, conscious that it was now very late, "People will be getting worried."

"Oh, yes, of course." Clarisse got to her feet, gave him a clumsy curtsy and quickly climbed down from the rooftop, leaving Erik alone.

* * *

_The key to happiness…_He still didn't understand her. He shook his head and descended back to his home, still brooding. Perhaps he never would understand her. 


	3. Like A Father

**Disclaimer: I am in no way affiliated with Gaston Leroux, ALW or the Really Useful Group. Please don't sue me.**

**Author's Notes: This chapter took me ages to write even though it's (still) too short. I apologise for the length and any spelling/grammar mistakes in advance. This is one chapter to the conclusion. Enjoy (hopefully)! **

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Chapter Three: Like A Father

Clarisse didn't come the next day. Or the next. Or the next. Erik sat alone on the rooftop, watching the sun go down. He hardly noticed her absence for he was always musing.

The key to happiness… 

The more he thought about it the less he understood. If she came back perhaps she would explain it to him. But she didn't come back.

Erik was not surprised. The little girl had finally realised who he was. She would never come back now. Erik felt a little melancholy at the loss of her company but he had expected it. Who would come back again and again to visit a Ghost?

* * *

The weather grew colder and the days grew shorter, the sun less brilliant. Erik stayed inside the place he called home, composing. He lived on music as he had done before. Sometimes he would look up from his manuscript and imagine Clarisse sitting cross-legged on the floor, pencil flying across paper. She and Christine wove in and out of his dreams, Clarisse with a sketchpad, Christine with a rose.

Erik laughed at his own foolishness. Clarisse was gone from his life, as Christine had gone years ago. Leaving behind only the Phantom.

When he was small, Erik always used to wonder if it had always been this way. People moved on with their lives, did the things they had to do, leaving him alone, his own mother, Christine and now Clarisse.

He was the only one who never moved.

* * *

In truth, Clarisse had been taken ill. Very, very ill.

So ill, that she could barely get out of bed, let alone go the opera house. Violent coughing fits shook her thin frame till she vomited into the bucket by the side of her bed. The coughing would start again, and again, until it was only sour bile that came out of her mouth.

The Matron at the orphanage, a portly, red-faced lady named Madame Promeau, was completely confused. Clarisse hadn't been anywhere where she could have even caught a little cold, let alone contracted pneumonia! True, she had been late back for a few nights, but she had only been wandering the streets. If it got any worse she would have to take the expense of calling a doctor.

Madame Promeau bustled into Clarisse's room, tucking the child in and pouring her a glass of water. Poor thing, she was already doomed, she thought to herself. Out loud she expressed her hopes of seeing Clarisse well and out of bed soon. Clarisse smiled feebly and reached out for the water. Her skin was papery white, her eyes too big for her small face. She already looked more dead than alive.

"When can I get up again?" she whispered to her carer. Her fingers twisted a corner of the bed sheet anxiously. She had been told yesterday that she would be able to get up today, but she was starting to see past the façade. The Matron just sighed and patted her shoulder.

"Soon, dear. Soon."

Clarisse sank back into her pillows, not contented with the answer. She knew that she was quite badly sick, but people got sick all the time and got better soon after. And Erik was waiting for her.

* * *

Clarisse longed to know if her mysterious friend had heard any news of her illness. Surely something would have gotten out now, she had been lying in bed for such a long time. Clarisse realised that she had never seen him before and didn't feel any need to. Maybe he didn't want to be seen.

She pictured him in her mind, drawing a picture in her imagination. In make-believe pencil, the lines of his body appeared on a non-existent blank page, followed by a head. Clarisse smiled to herself whilst adding his features and clothing.

He had a powerful frame, she thought, with dark green eyes and a bearded face. She had chosen the latest Paris fashions for him, black breeches and a white shirt, covered by a black coat. After all, black was an appropriate colour for a man who always lurked in the shadows.

In her imagination, Clarisse leapt from her bed to follow him back to the opera house roof where they had met. Together they watched the sun go down in a blaze of brilliant colour, as it always did. But for the first time, the sky was covered in stars.

* * *

Outside her room, a doctor shook his head.

"It's no good wasting medicine on the girl, Madame," he said gravely, "She's too weak to fight for much longer against an illness like this. You should never have let her out in the evenings."

"But Monsieur!" protested Madame Promeau, "Monsieur, she had only gone out for one night, just one night! She said she needed some air in the streets!" The Doctor shook his head.

"She's obviously been up somewhere gusty. And she stayed there for a long time, I suppose."

"_What?_"

"You weren't aware of the fact?" The Doctor raised his eyebrows and sniffed disapprovingly. "I had no idea you let your children ramble about where they pleased, Madame." Madame Proseau was too worried to be angry.

"But Clarisse's always been such a good girl. A little dreamy perhaps, but very obedient!"

"Apparently not. There is nothing I can do for her."

"But…but…" the Matron spluttered, "You can't just leave without doing anything! Clarisse is in that room being sick and you're just leaving?"

"Madame, there is _nothing_ I can do. Good day." The Doctor half bowed, picked up his hat and case and left hurriedly, for fear of being further detained. He did not hear her furious muttering behind him.

From her bed, Clarisse struggled up, gazing innocently at the flustered Matron.

"What happened with the Doctor? He was so nice to me last night."

"He…had an urgent call. Unavoidable. Never mind him, dear. Lie down." Clarisse did, not her big eyes still peered up with a troubled expression.

"Is something wrong?"

"No, Clarisse. But…but…have you been going anywhere recently?" The Matron tried to ask this in as casual a tone as possible, her twitching fingers betraying her state of mind.

"Um…"

"Clarisse, you really must tell me if you have."

"No?"

"_Clarisse._"

"Well, only to the opera house rooftop a few times. The view is good there. And I made a friend," Clarisse replied meekly after a few moments. Some of the children in the home could tell massive lies without even blinking. She was not one of them.

"The opera house rooftop! But Clarisse, it's so _cold_ up there! It's filthy too!" the Matron exclaimed in horror, "And what sort of friend could you have made there?" Clarisse's eyes widened and she began to cough again, shaking the bed frame.

"His…name…is Erik…" she choked, "He…tells…me…some stories…" Madame Proseau tried to hide her dismay.

"There there, dear. Calm down. Have a drink of water." She put the glass to Clarisse's lips put she was coughing so badly she spat out half of it.

"Madame, I…think…he's miserable. At least…he sounds like it…I've never…seen his face…" she gasped, "But…when I go back…I'll tell him again…about happiness!" She sank down, completely exhausted. "If he's still there," she murmured to herself, "if he's still there. Of course he'll be there. He's always there. Like a father." The Matron started. Clarisse hadn't always been an orphan, she remembered, she had once had parents too.

"Yes, just like a father," she found herself echoing.

"I never knew a father," Clarisse continued dreamily, "Except for Erik. Wouldn't it be nice to have a father…like him…" Her eyelids started to droop as she fell into a dreamless sleep, "…wouldn't it be nice…a father like Erik…"

* * *

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	4. Starry Skies

**Disclaimer: I am in no way affiliated with Gaston Leroux, ALW or the Really Useful Group. Please don't sue me.**

**Author's Notes: This last chapter was really hard to write, especially as I didn't know what to write. My original intention varies from what most of the reviewers want to read and I had a bit of difficulty choosing between the two. But here it is: the last chapter of my story (I apologise for the shortness). Enjoy (or not). **

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Chapter Four: Starry Skies

Madame Proseau trod quietly through the room, the rustling of her long skirts muffling her footsteps. She turned to look at the empty bed and shook her head.

"That's over then…" She was not an emotional woman, but even she had had difficulty in restraining her tears as she had pulled the white coverlet up over Clarisse's face. The child had looked so serene and peaceful, the closest thing to an angel on earth, Madame Proseau thought.

Now, all she could do was sigh. Clarisse's body had been taken away early in the morning, wrapped in her white bed sheet. She should have been buried in a pauper's grave and become another nameless skeleton, but Madame Proseau had paid specially for a small plot in the local churchyard with a simple headstone. She couldn't help but think of Clarisse sitting amongst the graves and laughing.

She entered the room and picked up a small sketchpad that still lay on the desk. Leafing through it briefly, she tucked it into the pocket of her apron. It had been with Clarisse ever since she could remember. Something that her parents had given her, the girl had said. Clarisse had never once put it down.

"Silly girl…" Madame Proseau muttered to herself rather unsteadily. "I always said…" She took the sketchpad out again. There was just one more task to do.

Madame Proseau walked into her small study and pulled a sheet of paper towards her.

* * *

Erik went up to the rooftop again. Even he didn't know why, the thought kept tugging at his heart until he gave into it, albeit rather grudgingly, and poled himself across the lake. The caverns were dark, their candles extinguished by the icy wind that had somehow crept inside. It didn't occur at once to Erik that this was odd.

He left his cloak behind, as usual. It would restrict his movement as he climbed up through the makeshift 'trapdoor' and he hadn't felt the cold in years. Erik reached up and pushed up the plank of wood in one fluid motion, hauling himself up.

He looked up and gasped.

It was a starry night.

Not just a usual starry night. Every patch of the sky seemed to be covered with fantastic glittering beings, displaying themselves to Earth in all their glory. They twinkled and flashed, bright specks of light, stretching out to eternity.

To the man who had lived so long in darkness, they each seemed like a portal to heaven.

Erik's face relaxed into a gentle smile. Even the white mask seemed less foreboding when illuminated by the thousands of _holy_ lights. For the first time, he stepped forward, out of the shadows.

Then he saw it. Lying on the edge of the roof, exactly where Clarisse had sat; was a small package. He moved closer, picking it up in his gloved hands. It bore a simple line:

_To whomever it may concern._

It was for him.

Erik tore apart the brown paper it was wrapped in. Lying on some sort of notepad was a letter.

A letter.

He had a letter.

Erik stared at it for a moment in disbelief. Surely this wasn't for him? His heart was thudding and he told it to be quiet. His eyes travelled to the bottom of the letter first, taking in the name of the sender.

_Yours,_

_Madame Proseau_

It was no one he had heard of. He was about to lay the letter down when a name seemed to jump out at him from the jumble of words. _Clarisse. _Thud. Thud, thud, thud. He could hear his own heartbeat clearly, so clearly that he was certain that any people wondering the streets would also hear it. Silently, he began to read the first words of the letter.

_Dear Monsieur,_

_I am sorry to say that Clarisse Borois died the previous night, after a long illness. By some unknown means, she had contracted an incurable form of pneumonia. God rest her soul._

_Monsieur, I believe that you became somehow acquainted with Clarisse during the past few months and formed a friendship with her. For this, I thank you. Clarisse was greatly in need of a friend at that time and you added to her happiness in many ways. I can only hope she also added to yours. _

_I believe Clarisse would have liked you to have this. _

_Yours,_

_Madame Proseau_

Erik finished the letter numbly. Clarisse. Dead. His only 'friend'. The girl who had taken pity on him and befriended him had died. Shakily, he put the letter down and opened the notebook it had rested on. And suddenly, he knew what it was. _Clarisse's sketchpad. _He realised he had never looked through it before and gently turned to the first page. It was a drawing of a woman, arm in arm with a man, her mouth open in a laugh. The next drawing was of a solitary flower, slightly crushed, no doubt picked by Clarisse as she rambled about one day. Erik flipped through each drawing and stopped abruptly. There, on the second last page was a self-portrait.

In her drawing, Clarisse was serious, her brow set in concentration. In her right hand she held a pencil, in her left she held another flower. She seemed to be doing her best to hold the flower in a graceful position while drawing. Erik smiled at her childishness and turned to the last page.

He stopped and stared.

There was the sunset she had drawn with him, in beautiful tones of grey. Each highlight and shadow, every single ray of sunlight was captured perfectly on the page. Erik could almost see the brilliant colours again, the red, the gold, the orange, was all reflected there on the page. It was magnificent in such a strange way.

Frowning, Erik flicked back to the self-portrait then looked again at the sunset. After a moment, he began to chuckle. He sat on the edge of the roof at midnight, laughing heartily.

Because he _understood._

_He had found his key. The key to happiness…_

And from somewhere far away, he could hear Clarisse's voice again.

_We all have it. We just have to find it._

There it was, on the page before him. The sun setting, opposite's Clarisse's earnest little face, it was there! The beams of the sun penetrated his heart at least, spreading their warmth and light to every part of him.

And even as he turned, still smiling, to retreat into the darkness he came from, his heart and soul soared to a brighter place.

**Fin. **

* * *

**Author's Notes: I have to apologise to anyone who thinks this chapter should have gone differently. If you don't like it, by all means, please tell me. I always like reviews. **

**So it's finished! I hope that everybody got as much joy from reading this story as I did from writing it. Thank you to everyone who read this and gave me feedback! **

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